


The Right Question

by R_Cookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Phobia, anthea is a ninja, h/c, lestrade is surprisingly awesome, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the k!meme.</p><p>Some things just need to be said, no matter the consequences your soul wars against. And sometimes, it takes that one person to ask the right thing.</p><p>You'll be surprised how few do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no bleeding idea what i'm doing but I needed something aside from the story i'm writing to give my head a reprieve. Cheers.
> 
> For the original prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=77395333#t77395333).

Sex. Sexual intercourse. Screwing. _Coitus_. There really wasn’t any elegant term with which to label the act, as Mycroft had come to believe. But such is the nature of humanity, carnal and banal in so many ways a man could get lost in the throes of madness. 

And therein men become insultingly easy to manipulate… therefore making Mycroft’s job woefully simplistic. Though in all honesty it suited him fine, he was unlike his dear younger brother in that regard, less wont to throw his genius obscenely in the faces of the people. (No, he most certainly was _not_ lazy.) 

It isn’t that Mycroft so much detests the notion of sex as he finds himself indifferent to it. He’s no stranger to the act – he is, in fact, rather well-acquainted with it. Even if it is entirely indiscernible and unthinkable of a man of his standing, his breeding. Not with his perfectly tailored three piece suits and perfect posture and flawless poker face.

 

\---

 

 _Sir, it isn’t my place to say this, I’m well aware, but you’ve not seen anyone since I’ve been in your employ._

_And?_

_And your mother has been **discreetly** suggesting that you do._

_Is that all, Anthea?_

_…Yes, sir._

_Well, then, spare us both and put it from your mind. It hardly matters._

_But-… yes, sir._

 

\---

 

Mycroft has never had a relationship. Not with anyone, no matter the attraction. The closest, aside from his family (obligatory), would probably be his PA for all the fussing (impressively subtle) she does over him. That is to say, outside of _The Incident_ , he has never engaged in any form of ‘mutual gratification’. One might even go so far as to think the man asexual. Save for the fact that Mycroft was just like any other hot-blooded male to populate the earth – except he really wasn’t quite like any other hot-blooded male.

 _The Incident,_ as it was thusly labeled by his fifteen-year-old brain, had been a mistake of such epic proportions. Looking back, his fear had been unnecessary, the lies so easily unraveled and transparent that there should not have been a threat at all. But chide as his older self may, Mycroft had been young and inexperienced and cripplingly out of his depth. The perfect set up for manipulation.

(The irony is not lost on Mycroft.)

At the time, keeping it a secret, bottling the physical… afflictions… had done things to him, things that remain stark and obvious beneath the layers of clothing should one manage to see beyond the crisp, white sleeve. Not that anyone stood a chance in achieving that much. But in controlling what he revealed, how much he could show, Mycroft had perfected all that he needed to get ahead. To hurtle through success so quickly that the attention was fixated on his accomplishments, rather than the imperfections.

And so, in the midst of praise and fawning, Mycroft silently locked away the memories, entombed them in walls of concrete where they were in no danger of ever surfacing again.

\---

Mycroft is the British government, telling anyone he is anything _but_ is simply a courtesy to the front. A very _British_ covering if anything – not unlike how a person might deem the student who _cannot_ shut up most vocal, or declare the finest essay ever written under the warlike conditions of an exam merely satisfactory. As such, he is incredibly busy, and his life is planned with deadly precision by his PA.

But there are, inevitably, certain things that cannot be foreseen; a phenomenon that Life has an annoying penchant for bestowing when it suddenly feels arsed enough to care.

Which is essentially how one Greg Lestrade storms into his life. (Well, not quite stormed as fumbled. Although to be completely accurate, it had started with the man’s nephew…)

 

\---

 

The first time they meet (properly, by Lestrade’s standards), it is a Saturday and despite the general consensus on a five-day work week, it apparently doesn’t apply to those in the public sector. More specifically, to men like Mycroft. _Especially_ , men like Mycroft.

He has only gotten out of the office and into the city centre when he encounters a gridlock. As usual. Only, in this circumstance, Mycroft is exceptionally tired from the severe lack of sleep, the _blasted_ diet and the frustrating incompetence of his subjects. Yes, subjects.

In a moment of spontaneity, he informs Anthea that he is going to _walk_. There is a brief flicker of uncertainty in her usually blank features before she nods. The woman knows to expect his call later for a pick up after the traffic relents.

Mycroft ignores the guards that shadow him and _walks_. Past the city centre and multiple turnings, he finds himself at a grocer and decides, since he’s already chosen so brashly to _walk_ amongst the commoners, to go for a mile. The hum of routine in those around him, the surprising quiet and emptiness of the modest store soothes his nerves somewhat and he finds himself gravitating towards the liquor section unknowingly.  

“Why’re you dressed like that, mister?”

The high-pitched question causes Mycroft’s focus to swerve from the sad bottles to the little person nudging his perfectly poised umbrella.

“Dressed like _what_ , exactly, young sir?” He asks quietly, amused.

The boy – judging by the height and features and the manner in which he holds himself; awkward footing... – whom Mycroft places around seven years of age, scrunches up his face in a show of deliberation. “Like a cartoon character. Ain’t nobody dresses up like that anymore.”

Mycroft merely blinks.

“Is that so?” Young as the child is, he has yet to understand that Mycroft hardly means it as a question and more of a statement.

“Aye, and it looks silly,” the child declares with a poke to Mycroft’s middle.

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would never have allowed his brows to furrow (however fleeting) at the child’s slight, would never have allowed his irritation to fester, would have been able to handle it like the damn politician he is. But this day has been and is still far from the norm and Mycroft slips.

He flinches hard at the jab, and his fingers curl tightly around the handle of his brolly, knuckles turning white. He is a fraction away from giving the child a reply that would have him cowering in ten seconds flat, when a familiar voice hisses into the fray.

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake. Where the hell is that – ” Heavy footsteps skid to a halt abruptly behind Mycroft. “Bloody -  _There_ you are!”

The Detective Inspector that his younger brother frequently harangues steps into view from around him. In the civilian garb of faded midnight jeans and polo tee tucked smartly into them, the man looks… most peculiar. Different. Hmm.

“Billy, how many sodding times do I have to tell you not to – ”

“You said ‘sodding’. I’m telling mama,” the boy’s grating voice interrupts imperiously. It reminds Mycroft startlingly of Sherlock.

The DI all but growls before turning around to face the poor man who has been subjected to the child’s babbling, “God, I’m so sorry about that. I hope he – wha- aren’t you Sherlock’s brother?” The corner of Mycroft’s lips quirk as he witnesses the DI stumble from annoyance and exasperation to the likeness of a stunned guppy.

“Indeed. Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector. Is he yours?” he asks politely, raising a finger to nudge the other man’s jaw close.

A faint blush colors the Detective’s cheeks. Admirably, he attempts a cough to cover it up, “Er. Right. Greg, if you don’t mind. Er. And no, he’s my sister’s. Saddled with him for a week. That is, I mean, he’s not – I don’t hate him – er. What’re you doing _here_?”

“No need to explain yourself to me, Detective,” Mycroft grants a small smile. “Gridlock. Thought I might walk.”

“Right, right,” Lestrade mutters with a nervous chuckle.

“As charming as this has been, I’m afraid Billy’s run off again, Detective.” Only just, mind, he’d gotten bored sometime around the blushing. Lestrade’s head whips around and he notices the absence with a string of curses. With a nod and clap to the shoulder, he dashes off.

But not before he sees that _look_ in Mycroft’s eyes and feels the man jump at the contact.

Not tense up, no, but _jump_.
    
    
    ---

On a Friday, there is a tag killer on the loose, and after a period of absolutely nothing, Sherlock takes to the case like a child to a candy store. But for the rest whom lack the luxury of turning down work simply because it’s _boring_ , it has been a strenuously long week with Lestrade trudging by without even two hours of uninterrupted rest.

To top it all off, it is the middle of winter and the detective has left his gloves in his apartment in his rush to head down to the scene.

Fingers practically frozen, the cold biting the flesh, Lestrade is a picture of discontentment. In the pitiful sanctuary of his pockets, his fists are balled up in an attempt to refrain from strangling the overgrown man- _child_ traipsing around the site. He takes a deep breath and exhales with a large puff of mist.

“Ah, I’d heard he’d finally gotten out of his funk,” a low voice says from his left.

Lestrade glances at Sherlock’s brother, and doesn’t bother trying to understand how the man has suddenly materialized beside him. As it is, he can summon only the energy to grunt in acknowledgement.

“Coffee, Detective?”

“Sorry?” Lestrade says absently, too intent on trying to keep warm.

A large, hot, _hot_ cup of long black is presented to his nose and the glorious scent of espresso beans fills his senses. Lestrade stares down at the hand proffering the nectar of life and gratefully grabs hold of it, hand and cup alike. If he lets out a rather suspicious moan when his frigid fingers cradle the deliciously warm paper cup, Lestrade is beyond caring.

“Oh, bless you, Mycroft,” he mutters reverently to the cup. “Terribly sorry that I’ll have to say this, but you’re not getting the cuppa back.”

Lestrade doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t have the ability to when he’s relishing the warmth blossoming through him from a single mouthful of the drink. But the amusement is clear in the man’s voice when he says, “That’s quite alright.”

 

\---

 

And life goes on. Mycroft somehow falls into a routine where he finds himself at the scene of some especially grotesque crime during his free time, observing idly with coffee in hand for the detective, watching his younger brother lope around with his doctor following more sedately (sanely) behind him. He tells himself he shows up like clockwork _only_ for the particularly nasty cases in order to convince himself his brother is alright and as brilliant (not that he’ll ever admit to it) as he is when he’s busy and engaged. Because regardless of what Sherlock might proclaim, Mycroft does love his little brother and seeing him _happy_ settles his own nerves on the worst of days.

“Coffee, Gregory?”

“Ta,” he takes a sip. “God, I might as well buy you an espresso machine with all the coffee you’ve gotten me.”

“I already have one, thank you. It really is no problem, Detective.”

“I dunno… I feel bad for swiping it from you,” he says.

And it is this moment in time that Mycroft Holmes can genuinely say his mouth had acted on its own accord. Because not in a million years would he have given in to the impulsivity.

“Have dinner with me, then.”

 

-x-

 

Sixteen hours after agreeing finds Gregory breaking abruptly into cold sweat. He is standing behind the kitchen sink, soapy dishes frozen in his hand and water running freely from the tap. He nearly drops the plate.

Mycroft Holmes is a veritable enigma, though it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that his tastes would naturally lean to the finer things in life, things Lestrade is either oblivious or ignorant to. He doesn’t listen to classical music, doesn’t delve into the Arts scene much; he cannot tell the difference between good wine and brilliant wine, and this applies likewise to food. To Gregory, there is just crap food and good food, wine that burns its way down your throat, and wine that doesn’t. Simple. He wouldn’t be accepted into all the finery of Mycroft’s world, and it worries him. (If there is one thing that discomforts Gregory, it is awkward silence.)

He is suited and ready an hour before Mycroft is meant to arrive, therefore giving Gregory an hour more to fret and pace. He feels like a bloody teenager all over again, and just for a dinner which might or might not actually be for work.

At precisely half past seven, there is a knock on the door behind which stands Mycroft in a smart black suit, charcoal waistcoat and the ever white shirt. Gregory tries his best not to stammer convulsively. (It really isn’t his fault he’s not been on anything resembling a date in an entire year.)

A sleek, yet nondescript black Mercedes is parked by the curb, and the man’s PA – Anthea, he remembers – stands patiently beside it, attention on her omnipresent Blackberry. At their footsteps, she lifts her head and opens the door with sharp, efficient movements.

There is an almost stifling _quiet_ for most of the ride until the car suddenly swerves to the left and Gregory quite frankly flies to the right in spite of the safety belt. He feels the warmth of Mycroft pressed against him and the undeniable flinch that follows. His eyes dart up to meet the pair of silver-brown, and in that flicker of an instant, Gregory sees fear, unadulterated _fear_ and vulnerability reflected in them that tightens his chest.

“Detective Inspector, are you hurt?”

The sharp question breaks Gregory out of his reverie and he flails back into his seat, the boundary rather clearly marked once more. Anthea, whose voice he has never actually heard until then, pins him with a decidedly hard stare, awaiting his answer.

“Nono, I’m fine.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the nigh imperceptible nod that Mycroft gives the woman. 

 

-x-

 

“So… Sherlock’s been fine. Nothing unusually psychotic of late.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is about Sherlock, yes? I figured this was… ” It is a terrible, _terrible_ lie and Gregory winces even as the words leave his mouth.

“Oh no, this is most definitely _not_ an interrogative… dinner… about Sherlock.”

“Oh. Oh, so it’s a social, erm, dinner, then?” Gregory wishes the ground would swallow him whole to spare the world from remembering how his voice reaches a new octave (higher) on the last word.

“Would you like a beer, Gregory?” Damn the man and his stupid grin.

 

-x-

 

After just a bottle of some deceivingly potent beer, Gregory feels much warmer and fuzzier around the edges and it eases the tension that had thrummed through him. His tongue loosens and they end up having a conversation Gregory could never picture having. They speak of siblings and their insanity, childhoods (or, well, Gregory does, anyway. Mycroft just sits pretty and smiles) and _rugby_ of all things. (Mycroft only bothers when it’s the world cup)

It is when a second bottle is half empty before the detective that his brain decides it is appropriate dinner conversation to say, “When did it happen?”

Mycroft, not entirely sober, freezes. It is the one response that confirms his suspicions.

“Someone hurt you before, badly enough that it stuck. When?” Gregory is like a man possessed – how on earth is it alright to stampede through such delicate grounds?

“What makes you say that?” Mycroft asks softly, caution evident in the look he pins the detective with.

“I didn’t think much about it at the start, when I met you at the grocer. Figured you just weren’t expecting it. And that was alright. But then you gave me coffee and my fingers brushed yours and you jumped. Most people, the non touchy-feely sort, they jump, sometimes, but mostly their muscles tense up. Over time, they just stop jumping if it’s the same person. They get used to it; they learn to expect it from the person. But you, you jump _every single time_.”

Mycroft’s face is now a blank, absolutely unreadable.

“In the car, when some tosser made your driver swerve, and I was er, against you, you jumped _again_ , then tensed up like a friggin wind-up toy. What sealed the whole idea was your reaction to my question.”

Mycroft says nothing for a long moment, expression tight. The edges around his eyes soften and he says, “You’re certainly not as dimwitted as my brother makes you out to be.”

“Thanks. I think,” Gregory swallows. He was expecting a punch for blabbering that whole spew.

“Fifteen.”

Gregory gives a nod of encouragement, patiently waits for a continuation Mycroft is evidently not set on conceding. Right. The admission is already more than he had hoped for.

 

-x-

 

It is drizzling when they leave the restaurant.

 

-x-

 

By the time the car pulls up by the curb of Lestrade’s apartment, the rain is coming down in a steady patter. Mycroft lifts a finger to halt Anthea, and reaches for the door handle himself. He snaps open his umbrella, and walks around to open the other door. He watches the detective duck the ceiling of the Mercedes, dislodging himself from the seat.

Mycroft walks him to the door of the building and it is the parting that has him on edge inside. After the stupid confession, he cannot fathom the judgment that has formed in the other man’s head; doesn’t wish to imagine the repulsion. He can only hope that it will not be used in some way against him – it would be a waste to have to do _something_ to the man if it should get in the way of his work.

What he does not expect is for his name to be spoken in so gentle a fashion.

“Mycroft.” There is a question in the voice.

He looks Lestrade in the eye. The hand that rises slowly bears a caution, a request for permission. Mycroft blinks once. He feels the soft pressure of calloused fingertips on his jaw, the gentleness coaxing something in his chest that Mycroft thought he no longer possessed. Mycroft watches as Lestrade leans in closer, inch by excruciating inch, braces himself for the instinctive need to recoil.

But it never comes.

Mycroft feels the chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth in a tender brush of chapped lips, catalogues it with the blanketing scent that belongs only to Gregory Lestrade. He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped close on their own accord until they fly open at the wet slosh of Lestrade taking a wary step back.

“Is that… alright?” Lestrade asks, both firm and hesitant.

His answer is a devastating smile.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Erm. Caution for rather graphic rape... and cloyingly sweet fluff. Cheers.

Gregory stares at the clock hanging on the yellowing walls like its very existence is an offence while simultaneously noting that the whole building is in dire need of a damn paint job. The minute hand glares doggedly back from where it hovers above ‘6’ and the hour hand positively glowers above ‘12’. A tiny, conscious part of his brain debates his capacity to function on thirty-eight hours of sleep depravation – it ought to mean something when inanimate objects begin to project emotions.

There is an impressive stack of files and papers covering each inch of his desk, perched in precarious positions and in every danger of collapsing. Gregory is too far gone to care.

With a resigned thud, Gregory lets his head slump atop a gigantic file that might have eaten another file (it’s the only explanation for its size), and whimpers.

His ancient, outdated Nokia phone which has up until this point been stabbing his kidney from his pocket, suddenly beeps. Clumsy fingers fumble to extract it and there is a text.

 _Are you alright? -MH_

Gregory blinks, completely puzzled at the question. Mycroft never texts idly. That would be something _Gregory_ would indulge in – though not with Mycroft; it feels strangely inappropriate given the man might be in the middle of some all-important meeting with dozens of dignitaries possibly glancing down at some stupid message he might have sent. So, Gregory blinks and stares at the CCTV stuck to the corner of the ceiling.

 _Are you wired to the building’s CCTV?! I’m fine._   


_Perhaps. Go home, Detective. -MH_   


_Sneaky bastard. Can’t. Mountain of paperwork staring at me. You?_ Gregory considers the insult Mycroft might take from him calling the man a bastard but his finger hits ‘send’ anyway.

 _Still at the office. You need rest, Detective. -MH_   


_Bit rich comin from you, Mikey._ Gregory quite likes the ring that the nickname has. When the reply is not immediate, Gregory resumes the arduous task of signing and reading statements.

 _Please refrain from calling me that. Get some sleep, Gregory. –MH_

 _Right. Sorry._

 

-x-

 

There is a sound that wades its way through the fog of Gregory’s mind and it takes a moment for it to register as a knock. It takes a _second_ knock for the man to stagger out of the nap he had not intended for, and a minute longer for gummy eyes to open. The first thing that greets him is the mother-of-all neck aches and then the fuzzy outlines of a man standing by the doorway.

Instinctively, his hand reaches for the revolver shoved at the back of his trousers when _that_ voice, the voice that enunciates every word with utter perfection; that could only belong to one man (two, really.) says, “Gregory.”

“Jesus, Mycroft.” His voice breaks just a little.

“My apologies. I hadn’t meant to startle you,” the man says in that soft, understated manner of his. Gregory squints against the overly bright light and takes in the impeccable suit and rigid posture despite the ungodly hour – but if he looks hard enough, he can make out the dark smudges under weary eyes.

“Wh-What are you doing here? Something the matter?” He makes to stand.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m simply here to ensure you receive _proper_ rest rather than suffer through dinner with me tomorrow in an irritable mood.” It is a wonder how he can make a grown man feel like a bumbling child. “I was rather thinking of trying that Japanese restaurant at Bruton Place. A one Michelin star, or so I hear.”

“Wait, _dinner? **Michelin**?_ Mycroft – ” Gregory splutters. It really is unfair for his boyfri – lov – his _something_ to spring things like that all out of the blue.

Mycroft tilts his head back a fraction, studying Gregory with that particularly unnerving look he sometimes employs. His eyes widen a little, softening around the edges as does the rest of his face.

“Oh, Gregory… I really am rather green at this, aren’t I? I’m sorry. Would you like to pick a place?” The detective raises an eyebrow at the man, and while he is thankful that he won’t have to burn a gigantic hole in his pocket funding his meal, Gregory still isn’t happy with the sudden dinner date. Not that he has any objections, he would like to spend more time with Mycroft, as it is they’ve only gone out for coffee and tea a number of times since that first time, but this –

“No, it’s not that, well there _is_ that, I mean, it’d be my entire month’s pay and then some,” he mutters under his breath. “I – just, you can’t just pop this up like that, Mycroft. What if I had something planned for tomorrow night?”

“I took the liberty of _checking_ your schedule, as it were.” He has the decency to look remotely sheepish. A new expression to Mycroft’s range which essentially flittered between amusement and condescension. Or that annoyingly vacant mask – the most hated.

“Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if we’d discussed this. Earlier. Or at least _tell_ me earlier next time,” Gregory nearly shouts and the realization gives him pause. Mycroft is regarding him with that cold, calculating expression that always makes him seem less human than Gregory knows him to be. It makes him feel like an asshole.

He heaves an explosive sigh and swipes a hand across his face.

“I’m sorry. Fuck knows it’s been a long day. I know it doesn’t excuse the outburst but – ”

“Gregory, allow me take you home. The work will still be there in a few hours,” Mycroft intercepts.

“That’s… not very comforting,” Gregory says weakly, finally grabbing his coat and following behind the other man.

“It wasn’t meant to be. Merely a fact.”

“Right. Of course.”

 

-x-

 

“How you can be the busiest man I’ve ever known and still find the time to hound me, I’ll never know.”

“I have my ways.”

“I’ll just put it up to one of life’s many mysteries, shall I?”

“Indeed.”

 

-x-

 

Gregory has to fight from dozing off on the ride home and it is by sheer dint of willpower that he doesn’t succumb to the vicious need for sleep. The whole procedure of lumbering out of the car, finding his keys and then trudging up the staircase (has there always been _that_ many steps?) is done by rote. He is dimly aware of Mycroft’s warm presence by his side throughout. He makes a beeline for his bedroom and murmurs something when Mycroft lingers tentatively by its doorway. Ever the gentleman, Mycroft.

Gregory manages to toe off his shoes before flopping gracelessly onto his bed. The mattress melds itself to him and Gregory can’t but take a deep breath of the blessedly clean sheets. He feels the mattress dip to his left, even as long, elegant fingers card through his tousled hair. The faint tremor jostles some semblance of awareness in Gregory.

Blearily, he cracks open one eye and in the dim light of his nightstand, Mycroft’s softer, though no less aristocratic features are thrown into sharp relief. And it is a magnificent sight.

Gregory swallows.

“Stay?” He mutters half to his pillow such that it comes out more as, “Shtay?”

Mycroft gives a tired, lopsided grin. “I’d… love to, Gregory.”

“Really?” He hadn’t expected it, not with the man’s… concerns. He had simply asked out of blind hope.

“Yes, really. But not tonight, I’m afraid. Perhaps… tomorrow? Should the offer still stand?”

Gregory decides then that he doesn’t like that layer of doubt on Mycroft; it hardly suits the man.

“The offer will always stand.” Gregory melts into the circles that Mycroft’s thumb traces against his cheekbone.

If he was ever certain, Gregory would have cursed like a Somali sailor for having missed the gentle kiss that Mycroft places on his temple just as he allowed the realm of dreams to engulf him.

 

\---

 

“Oy, Sir, date night?” Gregory huffs at the mocking lilt in Donovan’s voice as it careens past the doorway. His eyes dart to the clock and if this _blasted_ tie doesn’t begin to co-operate in the next few seconds he doesn’t know what he’s going to do because even though Mycroft’s switched their meal to a less… pricey establishment, Gregory still gets the feeling that wearing anything short of a tie would be a mistake. It’d already happened once when he’d agreed to join Mycroft for tea, only to be swept to The Savoy of all crazy places. And he hadn’t even had a say in it. So there he had been, with only an hour or so to spare from the sheer amount of paperwork that had been threatening to drown him, seated in one of the most luxurious places for _tea_ amidst a crowd that sent him disparaging looks in that British manner so covert it became glaringly overt.

Given how strapped for time he had been, Mycroft had waved aside the hall porter who had immediately stepped up to offer a tie to Gregory, already infinitely pleased that he had agreed to their little meeting on such short notice. Gregory knew of The Savoy, of course he did, and he was well aware of how difficult it was to acquire a reservation. But as he had followed behind Mycroft as they smoothly wove their way to their seats (Mycroft more so than Gregory), and watched the glances of disapproval give in to _polite_ surprise, Gregory didn’t really think it so absurd that Mycroft had managed it without fuss.

The moment they’d arrived at their table, all elegant furnishing and overwhelming decadence, their chairs were instantly pulled out for them and the maître d' had fluttered over to Mycroft with a bright smile.

A regular, then. But what was new.

“Oh for God’s sake, Sir.” Donovan barges into his office and wrestles the limp tie from his hands. It is like magic, the way she flips and tugs and produces a perfect Windsor knot – not that Gregory deigned to observe; he was looking resolutely at the smudge on the wall. Has it always been there?

“It’s Freak’s brother still, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gregory says, trying not to grimace at her tone.

“I can’t believe you’re in this. Is he anything like Freak?”

“Sometimes, in some ways. But mostly, not really,” he answers.

“Yeah, well, if he turns out to be a giant tosser like his younger brother, just say the word and I’ll sort it out.” Gregory looks at Donovan and has to shake his head at her seriousness.

“Lovely to know you’ve got the protectiveness down perfectly, Sally.” He pats her on the shoulder and makes for the door.

“I mean it, though.”

Gregory pauses with a glance back. He’s almost tardy.

“I know.”

 

-x-

 

As it turns out, the step down from a one star Michelin, is Zuma – a sleek, modern place where dressing up was still a requirement and prices still at a level Gregory would have balked at before Mycroft had come into the picture. He really doesn’t mean to seem like a scrooge, but ever since he’s gotten involved with whatever it is he has with Mycroft, money’s become more of a concern than before. It simply isn’t in his nature to be comfortable with leeching off the man.

“Well, that was abysmally noisy.”

“You did manage to get a private room, though. And the food was good. Wasn’t it?”

Mycroft hums in a vague agreement. “Quite.”

“Mycroft? There’s erm, something I need to talk to you about.”

The man immediately halts and turns to face Gregory in a sharp movement, his precise outline cut in the bright orangey lights of Knightsbridge.

“Are you… going to ‘break up’ with me, Gregory?” He can just _hear_ the quotation marks, but beneath the veneer of sarcasm is a trepidation he hadn’t expected of Mycroft.

“What? No, no, of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“I’m never silly, Gregory.”

“Actually, you can be. You did wear that sheep tie – ”

“There is nothing funny about Hermès, Gregory.” Mycroft sniffs half-heartedly.

“Sure, when you put it _that_ way. Digressing. Right. It’s just… I do enjoy _this_ , Mycroft. I do. But to be blunt as hell, I can’t afford it always. And I won’t have you paying every single time,” Gregory spews, barreling through his tiny speech and winds up worrying at his lip. It’s a bad habit, sure, but he’s not certain of Mycroft’s reaction and that’s distracting enough.

Something a lot like relief flashes past Mycroft’s stoic features.

“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. It was a folly on my part to have glossed over it. But, truly, Gregory, it is a small matter and something I _wish_ to do.” Mycroft takes a step closer, umbrella planted firmly by his side.

“It’s not the point – ”

“But it _is_ ,” Mycroft says emphatically. “I want to show you so much. I would have you taste anything you desire – the finest chocolates of Austria, the most tempting pastries of France – I would love more than anything to _indulge_ you. I find it most wonderful an experience.”

There is an excited flush to Mycroft’s cheeks and a brightness in those eyes that Gregory’s never seen before and it makes him want to snog the other man senseless like a floundering, hormonal teenager.

“Fine. If you’re sure,” Gregory concedes.

“Most certainly.”

“But I’m paying _and_ choosing at least one place that we dine at each month, okay?”

Mycroft looks alarmingly like a little boy when he smiles.

Gregory clears his throat. “Right, home, then?”

 

-x-

 

It’s different now, when he unlocks the door. Mycroft hides it well, but Gregory has experience and to his senses, Mycroft’s practically thrumming with anxiety. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open and ushers the other man in. His apartment is small, smaller than 221B even, but he’s usually alone or at the office so the lack of clutter compensates. Gregory’s aired the place all week and the usual musky scent from the lack of habitation is almost absent, every cutlery is finally clean and in its intended place in the kitchen – and Gregory’s rather proud of his stacking abilities. At the far corner of the tiny living room, all his battered novels, case files and overstuffed folders are piled atop the lonely desk.

“Er. Not much to show you, really, I don’t spend a lot of time here.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft says absently, his earlier nervousness dissipating as he no doubt analyses everything that’s lain bare before him. Gregory rolls his eyes and leaves him to it, shuffling off to prepare a pot of tea.

 

\---

 

The first time Mycroft stays the night, Gregory is given a warning about nightmares and they do nothing but lie atop the sheets, muttering about anything and everything until sleep finally beckons. Gregory crawls under the covers while Mycroft spends the duration atop, ankles crossed loosely. It is the same position they find themselves in the next morning.

The fourth time Gregory asks that Mycroft spend the night, it had been a particularly nasty week and Mycroft suffers through a nightmare that wakes them both. The simple long-sleeved shirt Mycroft borrows from Gregory is rumpled and a sleeve is hiked up to the elbow. And in the dim lights, the meshwork running across Mycroft’s forearm is altogether too obvious. Much to Mycroft’s relief, Gregory says nothing and merely traces patterns on the back of his hand until they once again fall asleep.

By the sixth, they learn that if Mycroft is held, every alarm in his system goes on high alert and any longer than ten minutes would have him wanting to crawl out of his skin. They do discover, however, that it is perfectly fine if _he_ is the one to do the coddling. And Gregory is more than happy to be a substitute for a pillow.

 

\---

 

 _“Moan nice and pretty for the camera, now.”_   


_There are hands, hands **everywhere** and his vision is blurred by tears and his face feels hot and the tears sting painfully. He doesn’t understand the strange feeling that overpowers his senses, his body unusually warm and sensitive._   


_There are hands everywhere and his limbs are bound but there’s something sticky and wet between his thighs and he ought to know what that is, he’s no pre-pubescent child but he **is** , he **is** nothing more than a child. He knows how powerless he is, helpless when tied down, helpless without strength, helpless to the sensations that flare against his will._   


_There are hands everywhere, rough, brusque hands that grip his hips so forcefully, that wedge ruthlessly into him and how it **burns.** He’s screaming, screaming and he cannot help the tears that fall as **something** nudges him, shoves brutally into him in a noisy, slick slide._   


_His breathing quickens and the pain dulls from the sudden onslaught of pleasure. He hates it, **hates** that his body would betray him and respond headily. There’s moaning and sickening puffs of breath against his shoulder that feel overly hot._

 _“Come on, Mikey. You like this, don’t you. I know you do, listen to yourself.”_

 _“Go on, then. Touch that little prick of yours, go on. Come for me – ”_

Mycroft jerks from the bed, eyes wide and frantic, sweat soaking through his shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut, but all he sees are flashes of _memory_ and he curses under his breath. The room is very dim and for a moment, he is distressingly disoriented. Fingers tighten around unfamiliar sheets, and he quickly scans the room that clearly isn’t his. Not with the old cupboard, that open trunk stuffed with clothes, or the few posters plastered to the walls. No, this is –

“Mycroft…”

His eyes land on the figure crouching beside him on the bed, a respectable distance away.

Gregory.

The man was clearly rudely awoken, what with the bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair that sticks out in so many directions it’s most distracting to Mycroft. He takes several deep breaths, his gaze never leaving Gregory’s concerned face.

When Gregory starts forward cautiously, he cannot help the words that leave his mouth.

“Don’t touch me. Please.”

“No.” Such a simple answer, and yet the understanding is staggering.

“Talk to me, Mycroft. Tell me. It’ll help,” Gregory whispers gently, over and over, all the while unmoving from his spot.

Mycroft _wants_ to talk. He’s wanted for so long to confide in somebody, someone who actually, genuinely cared about him, and not some psychiatrist – not someone who would listen out of obligation. But with his line of work, with his family, it’s never been possible, not when such information could leave him vulnerable.

Looking at Gregory, this plain, ordinary man who has done naught but understand and accommodate and listen. This simple but _extraordinary_ human being…

“I trust you,” he hears himself mutter.

“Thank you,” Gregory, _his_ Gregory tries. “Don’t know if that disbelief’s good or not, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“It’s good,” Mycroft rasps. He must’ve been screaming – bugger it. “I- Could I – ” He fails to find the appropriate words without making an even greater fool of himself but by some miracle, or quite possibly the man’s secretly a mind reader, in which case they will be having words, Gregory knows what Mycroft wants. He opens his arms in invitation and Mycroft leans slowly into him, inhales the traces of that particular cologne Gregory uses and it relaxes him immeasurably.

He’s guided back down to the pillows and their foreheads touch, nothing more. And in the safety of the four walls, Mycroft explains. He tells Gregory of a foolish teenager who walked the little town’s streets after dark on his own, the little town just below the estate, and how the reserved and private nature of his family had warranted disdain amongst the commoners. He tells Gregory of the drunken men who _recognized_ him and raped him over and over and the crippling fear he had never known existed. He tells Gregory of the blackmailing and his family’s tight-lipped acquiescence in order to hush them up, to preserve reputation. (He doesn’t tell him that he was rather certain the men were later stripped of everything they had – no loose ends and all that)

 _“Jesus, I had my suspicions when you didn’t want me calling you well, that, but – ”_   


_“You couldn’t have known for sure.”_

Mycroft is exhausted when it’s over. He watches Gregory roll over and prop himself up with his arms. He misses the body heat. But the man is close, close enough that he can revel in his presence, can see each blue fleck in those serious eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened,” he says softly to Mycroft. “But you’re Mycroft Holmes. You’re not Mikey, you’re not that fifteen year old anymore. You’re _Mycroft Holmes,_ Lord Emperor of Her Majesty’s secret service. The British Government itself.” Gregory folds on himself, kow-towing, and his forehead rests in Mycroft’s open palm. His fingers curl gently into the detective’s tousled hair.

“And, and you **are** perfection _. ‘Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough’_. I’m sorry, it’s not Shakespeare or whoever but it’s the one thing that’s stuck in my head and you’ve actually got me quoting sodding dead writers, poets, whatever.”

Mycroft can’t help the small laugh that bubbles from his chest.

“But you _are_ perfection, Mycroft. And it bloody hurts to know that even now, those fuckers still have a hold over you. I would have killed them, Mycroft, for leaving a wound I cannot reach. I – ”

Gregory blinks rapidly at the firm, desperate press of lips against his own. He reciprocates – of course he does – with fervor. Mycroft wraps himself around his body and Gregory feels the tremors fade. There is no actual reason for the somewhat hysterical laughter, but it echoes in the room and Gregory’s voice breaks into an exasperated, frustrated moan.

“I could easily arrange the hit myself, you do realize,” Mycroft murmurs wryly into Gregory’s hair.

“If you command an army of Antheas, I suppose I might consider an iota of pity for the bastards.”

“I’m quite certain Anthea would not appreciate being turned into a noun.”

“You’re certain?”

“Rather.”

“I’ll promise to look the other way if you do order the hit.”

Mycroft tightens his tentative hold around Gregory, and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Thank you.”

“Professional courtesy and all that,” Gregory mutters into Mycroft’s neck. A silence falls between them and for once, Gregory finds that he doesn’t mind. 

“I’m thinking of brunch at the diner just a little north from here. It’s a weekend and you are _not_ going to the office.” 

Then again… 

Mycroft laughs. 

“Anything you desire,” Mycroft answers, just as he had all those months ago. 

And in the lull of traffic that continues its hum in the distance, sleep beckons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously stunned to see the number of people who gave this piece Kudos. Like, seriously blown away. I hadn't expected it at all. I thought this story was dodgy at best. But I suppose THANK YOU SO MUCH is in order. Thank you for reading and who knows, I might write for this pairing again someday. Have a great weekend!
> 
> By the way, the quote was by George Moore :D


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